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THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 

AND 

LATER  SONNETS 

BY 
LLOYD   MIFFLIN 


TOUT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1900 


COPYRIGHT,   1900,  BY  LLOYD  MIFFLIN 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESBRVBD 


^    ^ 


r 


''NOW  LIKE  A  RED  LEAF'' 

In  youth  how  slowly  passed  the  golden  day  I 
As  if  upon  the  stillness  of  some  brook 
You  threw  a  rose-leaf  and  the  rose-leaf  took 
Its  own  sweet  time  to  loiter  to  the  bay. 

The  lark  sang  always  ;  life  was  endless  play  ; 
We  lived  on  nectar  from  a  poefs  book  ; 
Drifting  along  by  many  a  sunny  nook. 
Little  we  cared —  it  would  be  ever  May  / .  .  . 

Now,  like  a  red  leaf  on  the  autumnal  stream 
That  cannot  steer  nor  stop  —  that  cannot  sink  — 
Swiftly  I  glide.     As  in  some  fateful  dream 

There  is  no  time  to  pause — no  time  to  think  ; 
The  cataract  roars —  I  see  the  white  foam  gleam 
Within  the  gorge  —  //  draws  me  to  the  brink  I 

From  "  At  the  Gates  of  Song: 


iviisioes 


NOTE 

The  period  referred  to  in  these  Pastorals  is  supposed 

to  be  in  the  Author's  youth.     The  time  occupied  is  one 

year  —  beginning  with  early  April,  running  through  the 

seasons,  and  ending  with  the  following  Spring.     The 

region  described  is  in  southern  Pennsylvania  bordering 

upon  the  Susquehanna. 

L.  M. 
Norwood,  July,  1900 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood^ 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild  wood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew,  .  .  . 

Samuel  Woodworth. 


CONTENTS 

THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN  pagb 

Among  the  maple-buds  we  heard  the  tones  .       •       .  3 

The  budding  woods  had  many  a  note  to  thrill     .  4 

We  strolled  on  wooded  slopes  above  the  town         .  5 

And  when  the  April  days  of  sunny  rain   ...  6 

The  rhythmic  music  of  our  horses'  feet        ...  7 

We  stooped  a  moment  'mid  the  golden  hosts    .       .  8 

Within  the  orchard  in  the  month  of  May  ...  9 

Happy  the  idle  days  that  then  were  mine       .       .  10 
The  country  house  stood  on  a  chestnut  knoll  .       .11 

Beloved  Fields  !  from  out  your  pure  domains  .       .  12 

The  leafy  fence-rows  made  a  green  retreat       .       .  13 

We  loitered  on  the  headland's  rocky  knoll    .       .  14 

On  further  slopes  we  saw  the  bright  scythes  gleam  15 

Upon  the  porch  vine-shadows  touched  our  feet     .  16 
how  well  we  loved,  in  summer  solitude      .       .       .i? 

Pleasant  our  walks  when  Summer  was  the  tide     .  18 

Rich  shone  those  acres  in  the  glowing  heat      .       .  19 

The  very  weeds  were  wilted,  leaf  and  blade         .  20 

Oh,  the  wide  River  and  her  water-ways       ...  21 

We  heard  the  River  singing  :  "  From  the  lake       .  22 

The  long  day  over,  'mid  the  islets  fair        ...  23 

That  shifting  island  of  the  ^gean  seas    ...  24 

'T  WAS  OUR  delight  when  Autumn  days  were  here    .  25 


viii  CONTENTS 

Within  the  woods  September  sunlight  lay  .  .  26 
Again  the  cider-press,  age-worn  and  browned  .  .  27 
Oh,  who,  with  even  long-accustomed  eyes  . 
Great  fleets  of  riven  clouds  intensely  white  . 
'  There  is  a  legend  the  Algonquins  tell  . 
The  nearest  woodlands  wore  a  misty  veil  . 
From  the  old  mill-wheel  came  no  splash  nor  foam 
And  though  November  on  the  fading  hill  . 
low  tangles  of  long  grasses,  sere  and  pale  . 
The  wind  was  rising  to  a  wintry  gale  . 
The  SNOW  was  thawing  in  the  country  lane  . 
We  wandered  by  the  River  foot-hills  sere  . 
The  damp  south-wind  came  slowly  from  the  bay  . 
Vanished,  alas  !  all  heralds  of  the  Spring  ! 
Blustering  the  day,  but  as  the  rain  was  done 
In  the  wild  sky  the  lakes  of  shifting  blue 
Before  the  birds  returned  'twas  passing  sweet  . 
*twas  late  in  march,  and  all  the  air  was  chill 
as  chilling  airs  grew  balmy  once  again    . 

We  saw  the  CLOUDS  above  THE  HILL-TOP  SCUD 

Through  upland  trees  we  heard  the  loud  winds  blow     46 
When  o'er  the  mead  the  jonquil-trumpet  blows      .         47 


LATER  SONNETS 

The  Singer 5I 

To  AN  Old  Anchor ,       .  52 

Inadequacy 53 

The  Annunciation 54 

Longings 55 

To  an  Aged  Poet 56 

The  Onset         ...•••....  57 


CONTENTS  ix 

Bereft 58 

In  Memoriam 59 

The  Cataract 60 

Longfellow 61 

The  Monarch 62 

"  Blame  not  the  poet  " 63 

The  Fan         . 64 

Bellona 65 

The  Travellers 66 

The  Voyagers 67 

To  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 68 

The  Battle-field     . .69 

An  East  Rain  on  the  Island  of  Cyprus      ...  70 

The  Black  Portals 71 

A  Colored  Servant  Unable  to  Read   ....  72 

In  Bondage 73 

To  a  Young  Maid 74 

The  Bard 75 

To  A  General  of  the  Revolution 76 

The  Home-land 77 

A  Landscape  by  Rembrandt 78 

Fettered 79 

The  Beast 80 

A  Voice  from  the  Border-land 81 

The  Commonplace 82 

The  Queen  of  the  Tides 83 

To  AN  old  Laborer 84 

On  a  Painting  ' 85 

He  builds  the  City  of  Enoch 86 

The  Spirit  of  Poesy 87 


CONTENTS 

The  Fields  of  Quiet 88 

Nicaragua 89 

The  Dying  Day 90 

Looking  Seaward 91 

In  the  Valley  of  Dreams 92 

Samson 93 

In  Leaf-drifted  Aisles 94 

Isolation •       •       •       •  95 

In  the  Metropolis 96 

On  presenting  a  Sonnet 97 

A  Flight  Downward 98 

In  Memory  of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson    ....  99 

Estranged 100 

Arrival  of  the  "Welcome" loi 

A  Winter  Flight.  I 102 

A  Winter  Flight.  II 103 

Invocation.  I 104 

Invocation.  II 105 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


i 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


Among  the  maple-buds  we  heard  the  tones 
Of  April's  earliest  bees,  although  the  days 
Seemed  ruled  by  Mars.     The  veil  of  gathering  haze 
Spread  round  the  silent  hills  in  bluest  zones. 

Deep  in  the  pines  the  breezes  stirred  the  cones, 
As  on  we  strolled  within  the  wooded  ways. 
There  where  the  brook,  transilient,  softly  plays 
With  muffled  plectrum  on  her  harp  of  stones ; 

Onward  we  pushed  amid  the  yielding  green 
And  light  rebounding  of  the  cedar  boughs. 
Until  we  heard  —  the  forest  lanes  along, 

Above  the  lingering  drift  of  latest  snows  — 
The  Thrush  outpour,  from  coverts  still  unseen, 
His  rare  ebulliency  of  liquid  song ! 


THE'  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


II 


The  budding  woods  had  many  a  note  to  thrill : 
We  heard  the  River  lapping  on  the  shore, 
And  from  anear  the  pulsing  of  an  oar 
Came  round  the  jutting  shoulder  of  the  hill; 

Deep  in  the  rocky  gorge  the  mountain  rill, 
Tumbling  in  torrents  of  melodious  roar 
Among  primeval  boulders,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Made  music  that  from  far  re-echoed  still. 

The  forest  flowers,  from  the  leafy  ground. 
Were  peering  at  us  with  demurest  eyes 
'Mid  ferns  uncurling  in  the  balmy  air ; 

And  I  remember  on  that  day  you  found, 
Apoise  above  the  blue  anemones  there, 
A  fluttering  flock  of  golden  butterflies. 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


III 


We  Strolled  on  wooded  slopes  above  the  town, 
While  April,  coming  from  a  sunnier  land, 
Strewed  violets  near  us  with  her  rosy  hand, 
And  scattered  coyly  from  her  azure  gown 

Arbutus  bells  beneath  the  leaves  of  brown. 
We  saw  her  timid  by  the  dogwood  stand. 
When,  at  the  waving  of  her  mystic  wand. 
It  sprang  to  blossom  in  a  snowy  crown. 

She  turned  to  walk  within  the  greenwood  gloom 
Where  flows  the  runnel  from  the  rocky  spring - 
Silent  we  watched  her  as  she  stepped  along ; 

And  when  she  passed,  the  thicket  burst  abloom, 
While  to  and  fro  flashed  many  a  brilliant  wing, 
And  every  brier  trembled  with  a  song ! 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


IV 


And  when  the  April  days  of  sunny  rain 
Had  raised  the  River  and  each  rivulet. 
When  all  the  sandy  marge  was  soft  and  wet 
Where  high  the  drifted  ice  of  late  had  lain,  — 

We  saw  the  fishers  as  they  rowed  amain. 

Spreading  in  rapid  pools  their  monstrous  net ; 
And  rare  the  sight,  when  last  the  snare  was  set, 
The  dotted  buoys  of  the  circling  seine. 

We  watched  the  boatmen  pulling  in  their  prize  — 
The  silvered  fish  the  Susquehanna  yields ; 
We  left  the  sheltered  tree-trunk  on  the  shore. 

And  then,  as  balmier  grew  the  balmy  skies, 
Unchained  our  boat  beneath  the  sycamore, 
And  with  the  current  floated  to  new  fields. 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


The  rhythmic  music  of  our  horses'  feet 

Woke  the  long  bridge  and  echoed  o'er  the  plains ; 

Within  the  forest  oft  their  flowing  manes 

Were  brushed  by  branches  where  the  wildings  meet ; 

The  grape-vine's  blossom  in  thef  air  was  sweet, 
As  on  our  saddlers'  necks  we  dropped  the  reins, 
And  let  them  pick  their  way  through  rocky  lanes 
Along  the  margin  of  the  dense  retreat. 

We  reached  the  hill-top,  and  the  late  glow  there 
Lingered,  reluctant  still  to  leave  your  cheek, 
Then  faded  slowly  from  the  river's  breast ; 

While  on  the  summit,  gazing  from  the  peak, 
We  watched  Hyperion  drive  his  flaming  pair 
Down  the  gold  highways  of  the  crimsoned  West. 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


VI 


We  stooped  a  moment  'mid  the  golden  hosts 

Of  buttercups  to  gather  one  bouquet ; 

Then  wandered  where  the  dandelions'  ghosts 

Gloomed  all  the  greensward  with  their  globes  of  gray. 
The  bursting  white-oak  leaf,  that  looks  in  May 

A  silver  bloom,  frosted  the  shooting  tips  ; 

And  all  the  bellefleur  buds  were  out  that  day 

As.  ruby-rosy  as  your  own  dear  lips ! 
Along  the  windings  of  the  avenue 

The  guelder-rose  displayed  her  spheres  of  light, 

And  eaves  were  purpled  with  wistaria  flowers ; 
While  the  faint  aura,  for  the  sake  of  you, 

Toying  among  the  clustered  blossoms  bright. 

With  rarest  fragrance  filled  the  balmy  hours. 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


VII 


Within  the  orchard  in  the  month  of  May, 

Where  gently  waved  the  fitful  southern  breeze, 
We  watched  the  blossoms  snowing  from  the  trees, 
While  vagrant  butterflies  in  white  array, 

From  out  the  apple  shadows  where  we  lay, 
Fluttered  around  and  seemed  a  part  of  these  ; 
And  sweetest  violets  clustered  near  our  knees 
Blue  as  the  plumage  of  the  saucy  jay. 

Above  us  in  the  rosy-centred  blooms 

The  earliest  robin  perched  and  blithely  sang, 
Nor  knew  his  nest  was  builded  all  too  low ; 

And  o'er  the  lawn  the  birds  on  eager  plumes. 
Selecting  sites,  were  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
While  all  the  groves  with  wildest  carols  rang. 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


VIII 


Happy  the  idle  days  that  then  were  mine 
Spent  on  the  shady  slopes  about  the  house : 
The  squirrels,  joining  in  a  mad  carouse, 
Romped  o'er  the  red-oak  through  the  spreading  pine. 

The  wrens  were  warbling  in  the  eglantine, 

And  thrushes  carolled  'mid  the  maple  boughs ; 
While  flecks  of  sunshine,  falling  round  your  brows, 
Lighted  your  face  to  something  half  divine. 

Between  the  branches  pink  with  apple-blooms 
Hazy  and  faint  we  marked  the  distant  spires. 
As  toward  the  town  we  turned  with  careless  look  ; 

The  grosbeak  perched  anear  with  roseate  plumes, 
And  sweeter  than  the  Heliconian  lyres 
Sang  by  our  side  the  garden's  pebbly  brook. 


lO 


THE   FIELDS   OF    DAWN 


IX 


The  country  house  stood  on  a  chestnut  knoll 
Above  the  River  in  the  purple  hills  ; 
Through  the  wild  garden  tumbled  silver  rills, 
While  many  an  oak  gloomed  round  with  gnarlM  bole. 

On  the  elm's  tip  fluted  the  oriole  ; 

From  tangled  runnels  girt  with  daffodils 
Rare  echoes  reached  us  of  wood-robin  trills, 
As  on  the  orchard  slopes  we  took  our  stroll. 

Beneath  the  trees  in  sculptured  Grecian  garb 
Sweet  Hebe  poured  the  stream  of  health  eterne. 
And  startled  Syrinx  listened  for  the  Faun ; 

Diana,  striding  through  the  dews  of  dawn. 
Reached  to  her  quiver  for  the  fatal  barb. 
While  gleaming  Naiads  glimmered  from  the  fern. 


II 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


Beloved  Fields  !  from  out  your  pure  domains 
Floats  music  softer  than  from  viol  strings ; 
Better  the  warbling  of  your  feathered  things 
Than  all  the  rolling  organ's  deep  refrains ; 

What  prima  donna  trills  such  liquid  strains 

As  yon  brown  meadow-lark,  that,  floating,  sings 
Above  her  nest  on  slow-descending  wings, 
With  plaintive  sweetness  that  the  soul  enchains  ? 

Not  hers  alone,  but  myriad  notes  there  are 

Too  sweet  for  telling,  where  all  sounds  are  sweet : 
The  delicate  footfalls  of  the  showery  rains ; 

The  breezes  rustling  o'er  the  sea-green  wheat ; 
The  murmurous  voices,  faintly  heard  and  far, 
Of  children  gathering  cherries  in  the  lanes. 


12 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


Xf 


The  leafy  fence-rows  made  a  green  retreat, 
Where  cattle  stood  within  the  shade  to  doze ; 
The  elder  there  upreared  her  bloom  of  snows, 
And  many  a  mavis  made  the  dingle  sweet. 

Far  o'er  the  com  fields,  in  the  dazzling  heat, 
The  silent  women  labored  in  the  rows  ; 
And  where  the  hedge  its  sheltering  shadow  throws, 
We  heard  at  intervals  the  lambkins  bleat. 

We  watched  the  harrows  make  their  furrow  wide ; 
The  thievish  grackles  follow,  round  by  round. 
The  running  robins  halting,  as  they  eyed 

With  crafty  caution  all  the  mellow  ground ; 

While,  three  abreast,  in  seeming  conscious  pride, 
The  stately  horses  passed  without  a  sound. 


13 


THE  FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


xn 


We  loitered  on  the  headland's  rocky  knoll 
Above  the  shining  River,  silver-bright ; 
And  far  below  we  saw  the  rapids  roll 
Their  rushing  waters  into  boiling  white. 

The  sun,  down-gleaming  in  his  morning  might, 
Showed  the  lone  fisher  with  his  slender  pole  — 
Where  the  dazed  vision  lost  at  last  control  — 
Push  his  canoe  across  the  blinding  light. 

We  watched  the  sea-hawk  mounting  with  his  prey, 
The  brigand  eagle  meet  him  in  the  air, 
And,  swooping* under,  catch  the  falling  fish ; 

*T  was  sweet  with  you  to  linger  idly  there, 
Or,  rising,  piloted  by  your  dear  wish, 
To  climb  adown  the  crag-path's  perilous  way. 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XIII 


On  further  slopes  we  saw  the  bright  scythes  gleam, 
But  in  the  meadow  where  we  stood  that  day 
The  four-horse  wagons  took  the  gathered  hay 
From  fragrant  windrows  by  the  willowy  stream. 

Far  off  we  heard,  as  in  a  waking  dream, 
Faint  voices  lifted  where  the  labor  lay 
By  distant  barns,  and  now  and  then  the  neigh 
Of  colts  at  pasture  calling  to  the  team. 

But  when  we  saw  the  sudden-coming  rain, 
We  climbed  atop  the  homeward-going  load 
And  marked  in  evening  skies -the  arched  bow, 

As  on  the  hay  we  laughed  and  jolting  rode 
Adown  the  windings  of  the  orchard  lane 
Brushed  by  the  cherry  branches  bending  low. 


IS 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XIV 


Upon  the  porch  vine-shadows  touched  our  feet ; 
Across  the  rich  fields  of  the  level  plain 
A  breeze,  precursor  of  the  summer  rain, 
Chased  the  gold  billows  o'er  the  sea  of  wheat. 

The  dazzling  air,  a-tremble  with  the  heat, 
Grew  calm  and  blue  in  all  the  dells  again  ; 
And  to  the  umbrage  of  the  trees  the  swain 
Drove  the  white  flock  within  the  cool  retreat. 

The  fox-grape  clambering  o'er  the  oaken  limb. 
Swayed  to  and  fro  in  many  a  green  festoon, 
And  on  the  rolling  lawn  in  sun-flecked  urns 

The  fitful  zephyr  swayed  each  plume  of  ferns. 
While  rows  of  hollyhocks,  like  maidens  slim. 
Bowed  to  each  other  in  the  sun  of  June. 


i6 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XV 


How  well  we  loved,  in  Summer  solitude 
To  stroll  on  lonely  ridges  far  away, 
Where  beeches,  with  their  boles  of  Quaker  gray, 
Murmured  at  times  a  sylvan  interlude  ! 

We  heard  each  songster  warble  near  her  brood. 
And  from  the  lowland  where  the  mowers  lay 
Came  now  and  then  faint  fragrance  from  the  hay. 
That  touched  the  heart  to  reminiscent  mood. 

We  peered  down  wooded  steeps,  and  saw  the  sun 
Shining  in  front,  tip  all  the  grape-vines  wild. 
And  edge  with  light  the  boulders'  lichened  groups  ; 

While,  deep  within  the  gorge,  the  tinkling  run 
Coiled  through  the  hollows  with  its  silvered  loops 
Down  to  the  waiting  River,  thousand-isled. 


17 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XVI 


Pleasant  our  walks  when  Summer  was  the  tide  : 
By  many  a  fertile  field  our  footsteps  fell ; 
In  sunny  nooks  within  the  shadowy  dell 
Where  gurgling  brooklets  o'er  the  gravel  slide 

We  watched  the  minnows,  silver-shimmering,  glide ; 
Then  farm-ward  turning  at  the  noonday  bell, 
Saw  the  great  horses  drinking  at  the  well, 
And  rosy  children  clambering  for  a  ride. 

We  passed  along  the  meadows,  redolent 

Of  heaped-up  hay  that  in  the  sunshine  dries, 
I  following  still  the  music  of  your  feet 

As  down  the  path  between  the  grain  we  went. 
While  here  and  there,  with  tint  of  April's  eyes. 
The  cockle  blossomed  in  the  golden  wheat. 


i8 


THE   FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XVII 


Rich  shone  those  acres  in  the  glowing  heat  — 
A  glittering  host  with  fringM  spears  of  gold 
All  slowly  swaying  as  the  breezes  rolled 
Above  the  poppies  in  the  ripened  wheat. 

Anon  we  heard  the  lamb's  persistent  bleat 

From  flocks  unseen  in  meadows  o'er  the  wold ; 
And  through  the  fence,  the  colts,  grown  over-bold, 
Pushed  their  cool  noses,  glad  our  hands  to  greet. 

The  cows  stood  in  the  clover  to  their  knees, 
For  now  the  evening  milking  all  was  done, 
And  o'er  the  vale  for  many  and  many  a  mile 

The  barns  were  rosied  by  the  sinking  sun  ; 

Then  at  the  hedge  we  stopped,  and  by  the  stile 
Dreamed  while  the  moon  rose  through  the  murmuring 
trees. 


19 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XVIII 

The  very  weeds  were  wilted,  leaf  and  blade  ; 
The  Durhams  stood  and  panted  in  the  stream ; 
Deep  in  the  pool  we  saw  them  slowly  wade, 
Mottled  with  gold  of  many  a  sunny  gleam. 

The  tired  plowman,  in  the  heat  extreme, 

Stopped  by  the  willows  where  no  leaflet  swayed, 

And  as  he  brought  the  water  to  his  team 

They  stretched  their  sweating  necks  and  softly  neighed. 

Beyond  the  dale,  above  the  sultry  steeps, 
In  fields  of  bluer  and  intenser  light. 
Poised  the  lone  buzzard,  rising  in  repose, 

Where  soaring  upward  through  the  zenith  deeps, 
In  toppling  mounds  of  unimagined  white. 
The  rolling  cloud  unfolded  as  a  rose  ! 


20 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XIX 


Oh,  the  wide  River  and  her  water-ways 

Whose  currents  draw  us  through  their  rocky  gates, 
Winding  between  a  thousand  grassy  aits 
To  glorious  greeneries  in  unlooked-for  bays ! 

The  clustered  islands  swim  in  amber  haze ; 
And  the  rich  sun,  reluctant,  slow  awaits 
His  destined  setting,  while  he  still  creates 
Upon  the  golden  tide  one  dazzling  blaze. 

Silence  around,  save  where  the  waters  blue, 
Among  the  sedgy  inlets  in  a  dream. 
Gurgle  unceasingly  their  liquid  note ; 

Then,  leaning  listless  in  our  long  canoe. 
With  paddle  trailing  idly  in  the  stream. 
We,  mirrored  on  the  rippling  surface,  float. 


21 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XX 


We  heard  the  River  singing :  "  From  the  lake 
Of  Canandaigua,  making  many  a  twist 
To  catch  the  Unadilla,  in  the  mist 
Of  morn  I  flow.     Chenango  then  I  take, 

And  through  the  Pennsylvania  border  break 
To  clasp  the  Juniata's  amethyst 
Past  Tuscarora ;  rambling  as  I  list 
Beyond  Towanda,  where  a  turn  I  make 

To  lure  the  Wyalusing ;  then  convey 
The  slow  Swatara,  Conowingo's  creek, 
'Salunga,  Octorara,  and  Peque^: 

I  drain  a  thousand  streams,  yet  still  I  seek 
To  lose  myself  within  the  Chesapeake 
In  reedy  inlets  of  the  Indian  bay.*' 


22 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXI 


The  long  day  over,  'mid  the  islets  fair, 

Homeward  we  headed  then  our  slender  boat 
Across  the  crimson  waters,  slow  to  float 
By  many  a  lilied  inlet  lying  there. 

The  distant  rapids  murmured  through  the  air. 
And  as  our  oars  the  placid  river  smote. 
The  scarlet  circles,  widening  remote, 
Carried  away  the  very  wraith  of  care. 

The  sunset  darkened  ;  from  the  hill  the  moon 
Arose  full-faced ;  and  breezes  rustling  through 
The  reedy  harps  waked  all  their  silent  strings ; 

Then  o'er  the  surface,  smooth  as  some  lagoon. 
We  drifted  in  the  gloaming  dim  and  blue. 
As  Evening  spread  abroad  her  shadowy  wings. 


23 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXII 


That  shifting  island  of  the  Mgean  seas, 
Home  of  Apollo  and  the  Ionian  Shrine  — 
The  golden  Delos  of  the  days  divine  — 
Might  wander  still  among  the  Cyclades, 

But  ours  was  fixed  —  our  paradise  whose  trees 
Bent  with  the  masses  of  the  clambering  vine 
Sweeter  than  Leuce  by  the  Euxine  brine 
Between  Danubius  and  Borysthenes  ; 

And  when  upon  the  ripple-ridged  sand 

We  beached  our  boat  near  where  the  rushes  sing 
A  reedy  music  round  the  birchen  tree, 

We,  like  to  happy  children,  hand  in  hand 

Strolled  through  the  shadows  to  the  island  spring, 
Cold  as  Telphusa's  fount  of  Arcady. 


24 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XXIII 

T  WAS  our  delight  when  Autumn  days  were  here, 
To  stand  in  tawny  ferns  and  see  the  sun 
Break  through  the  drifting  clouds  of  dove-like  dun 
And,  for  a  moment  shining  summer-clear. 

Turn  to  resplendent  gold  the  hickory  sere. 
Then  where  the  quinquefolia  had  o'errun 
The  oak's  extremest  branches,  and  begun 
To  fall  in  pendants,  crimson  tier  on  tier. 

We  watched  the  brilliant  streamers  as  they  swayed 

.     Touched  with  the  glorious  light,  and  all  aglow, 
Like  scarlet  gonfalons  in  some  cavalcade 

Of  mediaeval  tourney  long  ago, 
Where  bugles  blared,  and  plumed  palfreys  neighed, 
And  lances  fell  on  armor,  blow  on  blow ! 


«5 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXIV 

Within  the  woods  September  sunlight  lay 
Dapplmg  the  golden  soil ;  there  was  no  sound 
Save  of  the  acorn  dropping  to  the  ground, 
Or,  now  and  then,  the  bugle  of  the  jay. 

At  times  a  squirrel  from  the  bending  spray 

Leapt  to  the  chestnut  limb  with  venturous  bound ; 
Or  on  some  wooded  crest,  the  lonely  hound 
Woke  the  reverberations  far  away. 

The  com  was  ranked  in  many  a  tasseled  tent. 
And  bluest  haze  slept  on  the  peaceful  hills 
Where  once  the  Sagamores  had  fought  and  slain. 

Anear,  the  plodding  farmer  slowly  bent 
Across  the  umber  stretches,  while  the  drills 
Scattered  the  blessings  of  the  future  grain. 


26 


THE  FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XXV 


Again  the  cider-press,  age-worn  and  browned, 
I  see  along  the  lane-side  by  the  trees  ; 
The  waiting  load  of  pippins  yet  to  squeeze 
Near  piles  of  pomace  lying  on  the  ground  ; 

The  horse  that  dragged  the  creaking  lever  round ; 
The  oozing  juice  ;  and  hear,  above  all  these, 
The  chorus  of  the  honey-hunting  bees,  — 
That  sweet  monotony  of  drowsy  sound ! 

Against  the  bellefleur  boughs  the  ladder  lay, 
And  you  were  standing  on  the  lower  rung, 
When,  in  the  shade,  a  row  of  casks  we  saw ; 

Then  drawing  forth  the  barrel's  foamy  bung  — 
Laughing  together  on  that  happy  day  — 
We  drew  the  nectar  through  an  oaten  straw. 


27 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XXVI 

Oh,  who,  with  even  long-accustomed  eyes. 

From  these  steep  headlands  where  the  River  roars, 
Can  view  the  region  with  its  fertile  shores. 
Nor  feel  that  rarest  beauty  round  him  lies ! 

Through  all  the  vale  Demeter's  temples  rise  — 
The  snow-white  barns  that  hold  her  golden  stores. 
Where  flails  make  murmur  on  the  threshing  floors 
Like  distant  thunder  in  the  Summer  skies. 

Here  Plenty  from  her  overflowing  horn 

Pours  endless  blessing ;  ruddy-breasted  Toil 
Reaps  the  wide  valley  of  its  rich  increase,  — 

The  rolling  slopes  of  pasture  and  of  corn ; 

Here  new-sown  grain  springs  from  the  teeming  soil, 
And  on  the  fair  hills  broods  the  Dove  of  Peace. 


s8 


THE  FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


& 


XXVII 

Great  fleets  of  riven  clouds  intensely  white, 
Sailing  wind-harried,  'thwart  the  lowering  sky ; 
On  the  wild  River,  where  the  islands  lie, 
Long  levels  of  insufferable  light ; 

Cloud-shadows,  moving  in  portentous  flight, 
Dimming  the  crimson  of  the  steeps  near  by, 
And  glooming  golden  ridges,  crested  high. 
As  the  dread  pinions  of  Apollyon  might : 

Weird  slopes  of  tawny  grasses  all  astir 
As  if  some  monster  crept  along  the  hill 
Covered  with  hide  of  panther-colored  fur ; 

While  in  the  blustering  air,  grown  bleak  and  chill 
The  only  wraith  of  Summer  lingering  still  — 
Floats  the  blown  milkweed's  ermined  gossamer. 


29 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXVIII 

There  is  a  legend  the  Algonquins  tell 

Of  power  and  splendor  of  the  Great  White  One ; 
The  God  of  Light  he  is,  and  of  the  Sun, 
And  in  their  strange  lore  hath  no  parallel. 

He,  in  the  Summer,  from  his  citadel, 
Comes  to  the  gates  of  his  dominion. 
And  throws  them  open  when  the  day 's  begun, 
And  shuts  them  in  the  evening.     But  a  spell 

Saps  his  puissance  when  the  Autumn  haze 
Spreads  its  dim-shimmering  silver  on  the  rills ; 
Then  to  the  mountain-tops  he  slowly  wends 

And,  .idly  drowsing  on  the  dreamy  hills. 

Puffs  at  his  pipe,  and  as  the- smoke  descends, 
Behold  our  mellow  Indian  Summer  days ! 


30 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XXIX 

The  nearest  woodlands  wore  a  misty  veil ; 

From  phantom  trees  we  saw  the  last  leaf  float ; 
The  hills  though  near  us  seemed  to  lie  remote, 
Wrapped  in  a  balmy  vapor,  golden-pale. 

From  somewhere  hidden  in  the  dreamy  dale  — 
Latona's  sorrow  yet  within  her  note  — 
Reft  of  her  comrades,  o'er  the  stubbled  oat 
We  heard  the  calling  of  the  lonely  quail. 

In  the  bare  com  field  stalked  the  silent  crow ; 
Too  faint  the  breeze  to  make  the  grasses  sigh, 
And  not  one  carol  came  from  out  the  sky ; 

But  o'er  the  golden  gravelly  levels  low, 
The  brook,  loquacious,  still  went  lilting  by 
As  liquidly  as  Lara,  long  ago. 


31 


THE   FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XXX 


From  the  old  mill-wheel  came  no  splash  nor  foam, 
For  in  the  race  the  Autumnal  stream  was  low ; 
The  restless  pigeons,  flying  to  and  fro, 
Circled  above,  but  soon  came  sailing  home ; 

The  sparrows,  settling  on  the  stack's  gold  dome, 
Garrulous  chattered  of  the  coming  snOw ; 
For  when  the  storms  of  Winter  rudely  blow 
They  can  no  longer  from  the  gables  roam. 

Within  the  bam  the  booming  of  the  flail 
And  rattling  crackle  of  the  beaten  straw 
Made  pleasant  music  to  the  Hstening  ear ; 

Across  the  unrippled  surface  of  the  mere 
We  heard  the  piping  of  the  scattered  quail, 
And  from  the  wood,  a  crow's  foreboding  caw. 


32 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXXI 


And  though  November  on  the  fading  hill 
Trod,  in  her  sombre  robes,  with  muffled  feet, 
Yet  to  our  ears  came  music,  silver-sweet, 
From  tinkling  lyres  in  the  hidden  rill. 

As  days  were  coming  with  their  bitter  chill, 
We  dearer  prized  the  pale  sun's  feeble  heat ; 
As  flowers  were  gone,  we  gladlier  felt  to  greet 
The  green  which  edged  the  mossed  wheel  by  the  mill 

The  buttonwoods  that  by  the  old  race  grew, 
Were  lifting  silently  their  marble  arms 
In  the  deep  arches  of  immurmurous  noon. 

Our  only  birds  were  pigeons  from  the  farms  ; 
While  in  the  rain-fiired  ruts  the  pools  of  blue 
Held  the  frayed  circle  of  the  gray-faced  moon. 


33 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XXXII 

Low  tangles  of  long  grasses,  sere  and  pale  ; 
The  flowerless  stalks  of  most  pathetic  weeds 
Holding  their  heads  up  with  a  few  scant  seeds  — 
Their  hope  of  next  year's  life  ;  the  soughing  wail 

Of  scentless  winds  that  scour  the  bitter  vale 

And  find  no  fragrance  now  from  all  the  meads ;  — 
The  sorrow  of  the  time  that  far  exceeds 
The  deepest  pathos  of  the  saddest  tale ! 

We  met  these  sombre  changes  with  a  sigh, 
Feeling  the  breath  of  Winter  drawing  near, 
And  wished  at  heart  the  days  of  Spring  were  here, 

For  now  we  saw  but  boundless  blanks  of  gray 
Where  once  appeared  the  glowing  sapphire  sky 
With  her  unfathomable  deeps  of  May. 


34 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXXIII 

The  wind  was  rising  to  a  wintry  gale ; 
We  left  the  valley,  lying  white  below, 
And  from  the  untrod  ridges  deep  with  snow 
Turned  and  looked  down  upon  the  pallid  vale. 

The  spirits  of  the  North  began  to  wail 
Around  the  cliff,  as  toiling  upward  slow, 
We  reached  the  crest  and  saw  the  sunset-glow 
Flare  on  the  crags  around  us,  crimson-pale. 

Then  all  the  twilight  phantoms  of  the  sky 
Changed  into  ever-shifting  dragon-form. 
And  close  above  the  mountain,  crouching,  lay  ; 

Weird  voices  in  the  pines  began  to  cry 

From  out  the  tortured  tops  of  gloomy  gray, 

As  through  the  gathering  darkness  rose  the  storm. 


35 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


xxxrv 

The  snow  was  thawing  in  the  country  lane, 
And  from  the  wooded  gullies  flowing  down 
The  tiny  streams  ran  tinkling  to  the  town, 
Filling  the  brooklet  as  in  time  of  rain. 

Far  off  we  saw  the  heavy-loaded  wain, 
That,  creaking,  crept  along  the  lone  hill's  crown ; 
In  rocky  knolls,  crested  with  thickets  brown, 
We  listened  for  a  bird  —  but  all  in  vain. 

Yet  Pan  still  plays  upon  a  thousand  lyres 
If  we  but  hear,  so  long  as  in  our  souls 
The  light-winged  goddess,  Fancy,  still  survives ; 

And  leaning  by  the  telegraph's  tall  poles,  — 

The  Wind's  sweet  finger  strumming  on  the  wires, 
We  heard  the  bees  hum  in  Hymettus  hives  ! 


36 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXXV 

We  wandered  by  the  River  foot-hills  sere 

When  frost  had  turned  the  grass  to  faded  gray ; 

Feeling  the  influence  of  the  gloomy  day 

We  walked  in  silence  through  the  stretches  drear. 

There  was  no  hint  of  Spring-time  far  or  near ; 
The  drifts  of  snow  that  in  the  woodland  lay 
Seemed  Summer's  gravestones,  as  we  took  our  way 
Like  mourners  at  the  funeral  of  the  year. 

Then  suddenly  some  bird  began  to  pour 
His  buoyant  spirit  on  the  silent  air. 
When,  at  that  sound,  the  sorrow  of  the  time 

Took  flight  with  all  the  legions  of  despair. 

While  in  our  hearts  began  the  Spring  to  chime, 
And  we  were  glad,  for  Winter  seemed  no  more. 


37 


?» 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


xxxvr 

The  damp  south-wind  came  slowly  from  the  bay, 
And  with  the  drizzle  brought  the  sea-birds,  too,  — 
Lone  gulls  far  flying  from  their  ocean  blue, 
And  seeming  lost  in  these  confines  of  gray. 

The  River  hills,  so  purple  yesterday, 

Now  wrapped  in  mist,  were  blotted  from  our  view ; 
The  smoke  hung  flattened  o'er  the  factory  flue. 
And  veiled  the  steeples  in  a  murky  spray. 

Turning  we  sought  afar  the  ivied  gate 

That  led  us  to  the  house  whose  ancient  eaves 
Hummed  with  the  sparrow  in  the  leafless  vines ; 

Indoors  we  sat  and  turned  the  poets'  leaves, 
For  if  outside  the  Spring  was  drear  and  late, 
Eternal  Summer  lived  within  their  lines. 


38 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XXXVII 

Vanished,  alas  !  all  heralds  of  the  Spring  ! 
The  rath  song-sparrow,  yesternoon  that  shook 
The  elder  with  his  lay,  these  dells  forsook, 
Leaving  no  echo  of  his  voice  or  wing. 

And  now  in  warmer  glens  is  carolling. 
Above  the  muffled  bubble  of  the  brook 
We  hear  a  bird-like  sound,  but  when  we  look, 
'T  is  but  the  withered  beech-leaves'  twittering. 

Silence  is  in  the  dale  —  a  waiting  hush  — 
As  if  the  very  hill-side  listens  too 
That  it  may  hear  the  birds  their  song  renew ; 

While  in  the  thicket's  briery  underbrush. 

Where  last  year  sang  the  unrivalled  hermit-thrush, 
The  Raspberry  bends  her  bows  of  bloomy  blue. 


39 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XXXVIII 

Blustering  the  day,  but  as  the  rain  was  done, 
We  sought  the  slopes  whereon  the  kalmia  grew ; 
Far  on  the  River  —  loved  of  me  and  you  — 
The  white  caps  gUstened  in  the  streaks  of  sun. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  clouds  of  dun 

That,  torn  in  shreds,  across  the  heavens  blew, 
As  o'er  the  wooded  ridges  wildly  flew 
The  eagle-flighted  North- Wind,  Aquilon. 

But  down  below,  within  the  level  vale. 

Where  the  high  fell  the  lower  valley  shields. 
The  plowman  went  his  still  recurrent  round ; 

Careless  of  winds  he  plodded  in  the  dale  ; 

His  shining  share  up-turned  the  stubbled  ground 
Against  the  seeding-time  of  oaten  fields. 


4© 


THE  FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XXXIX 


In  the  wild  sky  the  lakes  of  shifting  blue 

Were,  by  wind-harried  clouds,  revealed  or  blurred ; 

Along  the  brook,  from  leafy  mould  interred, 

We  saw  the  snowdrop  shyly  peeping  through. 
The  flock  of  grackles,  decked  in  raven  hue, 

Turned  down  the  rudders  of  their  tails,  and  whirred 

Up  to  the  walnut  as  a  single  bird, 

Rasping  their  wheezy  squeak  as  slow  they  flew. 
The  shadow  from  the  gnomon  of  the  pine 

Fell  on  the  dial  of  the  lawn,  and  told 

In  intervals  of  sun,  the  passing  hours  ; 
But  sap  was  waking  in  the  eglantine. 

Beneath  the  ground  the  jonquil  forged  her  gold, 

And  hope  was  springing  in  the  hearts  of  flowers. 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN 


XL 


Before  the  birds  returned  't  was  passing  sweet 
Down  in  the  leafless  woods  to  take  our  strolls ; 
The  silvery  glimmer  of  the  beechen  boles 
Drew  us  still  on  to  where  the  brooklets  meet. 

The  crocus,  bursting  from  her  long  retreat, 
Showed  the  rare  color  that  her  cup  unrolls  ; 
And  banks  of  violets,  smothering  all  the  knolls, 
Brought  the  blue  hills  and  laid  them  at  our  feet. 

From  Nature's  hand  the  lyre  is  never  gone ; 
Her  tuneful  fingers,  moving  to  and  fro. 
Make  music  on  the  wind-harp  of  the  pines  ; 

And  over  golden  pebbles,  rippling  on 
Amid  the  'greenbrier  and  the  laurel  low. 
Her  streams  purl  sweeter  than  a  Poet's  lines  ! 


42 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XLI 


'T  WAS  late  in  March,  and  all  the  air  was  chill ; 
The  turbid  River,  swollen  to  the  brim, 
Rushed  past  the  bending  alders,  sullen,  grim, 
While  sombre  o'er  us  rose  the  rock-ribbed  hill. 

But  down  the  gorge  the  silver-running  rill 
Gurgled  as  if  't  were  June,  and  from  the  slim 
Dove-colored  perches  of  the  beechen  limb, 
Sudden  we  heard  the  bluebird's  welcome  trill ; 

Ah,  then  we  hoped  that  Spring  at  last  was  near, 
And  so  took  heart,  for  on  those  wings  the  hue 
Of  heavenly  April  came,  and  well  we  knew 

That  soon  the  water-lily  roots  would  hear, 
And  stir  their  fibres  in  the  waters  blue 
Among  the  purple  islands,  dim  and  dear. 


43 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XLII 

As  chilling  airs  grew  balmy  once  again, 
Within  the  forest  from  a  leafless  spray 
Some  timorous  songster  tried  his  earliest  lay, 
For  Spring  was  coyly  coming  up  the  glen. 

The  cardinal  flashed  by  within  our  ken  — 

A  winged  rose  where  all  the  groves  were  gray ; 
And  like  a  flash  of  April  came  the  jay, 
While  captious  in  the  tangle  chafed  the  wren. 

But  the  brown-sparrow  on  the  alder-tree, 
Outrivalling  better  warblers  of  the  wood, 
Forced  our  applause  by  bursts  of  ecstasy ; 

As  at  Olympia  once,  dwarf  Zenocles, 
Amid  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude. 
Won  the  wreathed  olive  from  Euripides. 


THE   FIELDS   OF   DAWN 


XLIII 

We  saw  the  clouds  above  the  hill-top  scud, 

Blown  by  the  winds  of  March  in  scattering  flocks  ; 

While  o'er  the  recently  submerged  rocks 

The  yellow  River  rolled  his  swollen  flood. 
Within  the  roads  the  ruts  were  filled  with  mud ; 

Upon  the  wet  lawn  sprouted  four-o-clocks ; 

And,  following  on  this  vernal  equinox, 

All  sulphur-colored  burst  the  spice-wood  bud. 
And  then  it  was,  with  joyance  in  our  eyes. 

We  marked  the  iris  push  her  spears  of  green 

Along  the  edges  of  the  garden  rill ; 
And  then  it  was,  that  with  a  glad  surprise, 

Seeing  her  glory  —  for  a  year  unseen  — 

We  ran  to  greet  the  earliest  daffodil. 


45 


THE   FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XLIV 

Through  upland  trees  we  heard  the  loud  winds  blow, 
For  all  the  chestnut  limbs  were  brown  and  bare, 
But  on  the  southern  slopes  we  lingered,  where 
The  blossoms  of  the  cherry  fell  like  snow. 

Across  the  vale,  majestically  slow. 

Floated  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  and  there 
The  cottage  smoke  curled  in  the  azure  air. 
And  winding  streams  flashed  forth  a  silver  glow. 

Around  us,  ridges  rose  of  rock  and  fern ; 
But  in  the  fields  afar  slow  moved  the  teams. 
And  as  the  plowmen  paused  to  make  the  turn  — 

The  centre  lessening  at  each  furrow  run  — 
Athwart  the  valley  danced  the  dazzling  gleams 
From  burnished  shares  refulgent  in  the  sun  ! 


46 


THE  FIELDS   OF  DAWN 


XLV 


When  o'er  the  mead  the  jonquil-trumpet  blows, 
Spring  sounds  once  more  her  soft  exultant  strain ; 
Between  the  golden  showers  of  the  rain 
I  hear  her  laughter  where  the  brooklet  flows. 

Beside  her  path  the  earliest  crocus  grows, 
And  daffodils  go  dancing  in  her  train  ; 
Along  green  slopes  within  the  country  lane 
She  bends  to  greet  the  budding  of  the  rose. 

Ah  yes,  long-wished-for  May  at  last  I  see. 
With  all  her  blossoms  and  with  all  her  blue, 
And  gladly  from  December  do  I  part ; 

And  yet.  Dear  Love,  it  is  not  May  with  me,  — 
For  till  the  violet  brings  a  sight  of  you 
Still  is  it  Winter  in  my  lonely  heart ! 


47 


LATER  SONNETS 


« 


Let  us  sing  somewhat  higher  strains. 
Vineyards  and  tamarisks  delight  not  all. 

—  Virgil. 


SO 


LATER   SONNETS 


THE  SINGER 

I  LISTENED  once,  upon  an  Autumn  day, 
Unto  a  warbler  in  a  golden  wood  ; 
Entranced  by  the  music  as  I  stood, 
Unequalled  seemed  to  me  his  wondrous  lay. 

Then  as  I  thought  of  all  the  choir  of  May,  — 
Ecstatic  notes  in  every  solitude,  — 
So  changed  by  that  remembrance  was  my  mood, 
That,  disenthralled,  I  sadly  turned  away  : 

O  Poet,  chanting  in  these  waning  times. 
Far  from  the  fair  Elizabethan  Spring,  — 
Outpouring  here  reiterated  rhymes,  — 

How  full  of  pathos  is  thy  sadder  fate 
Who  by  the  spirit  art  impelled  to  sing, 
Yet  conscious  that  thy  voice  is  heard  too  late  ! 


sr 


LATER  SONNETS 


TO  AN   OLD   ANCHOR  LYING  FAR  INLAND 
AT    MATAMORAS 

Perchance  some  Spanish  galleon  after  gold 
Dragged  thy  rude  bulk  along  the  coral  reef ; 
Perhaps  some  blustering,  buccaneering  thief, 
His  mutinous  crew  held  down  within  the  hold, 

Dropped  thee  in  cypress  inlets,  while  he  rolled 
His  booty  shoreward  ere  it  came  to  grief,  — 
Such  swaggering,  slashing  Andalusian  chief 
As  Pedro  Alvarado,  famed  of  old 

A  faithful  friend  thou  wast,  now  cast  away, 
Bent  with  the  strain  of  dire  adversity, 
Man's  great  ingratitude  thy  only  wage ; 

Like  some  dim  Ammiral  of  a  by-gone  day, 
Unthanked,  abandoned  in  thy  useless  age, 
Untombed  afar  from  the  familiar  sea ! 


5« 


LATER  SONNETS 


INADEQUACY 


Oh,  the  sweet  sounds  anear  each  starry  gate 

Of  cloudy  temples  in  the  ether  hung  ! 

Oh,  phantom  voices  from  the  spirit  wrung 

When  lifted  on  her  airy  wings  elate ! 
Ah,  for  the  power  such  tones  to  re-create ! 

I  heard  the  Seraph,  but  my  halting  tongue 

Pronounced  but  infelicities  ;  I  sung 

Mere  stammerings,  vague  and  inarticulate. 
So  one  adown  weird  pathways  of  the  night 

Hears  in  his  sleep,  by  pale  ethereal  streams, 

Music  elusively  beyond  his  reach. 
And  waking,  ever  fails  to  trace  aright 

Strains  he  hath  heard,  —  they  lying  beyond  speech 

In  depths  of  incommunicable  dreams. 


53 


LATER   SONNETS 


THE  ANNUNCIATION 

A  PAINTING  BY  PIERRE  MIGNARD 
IN   POSSESSION   OF  THE  AUTHOR 

The  radiant  angel  stands  within  her  room. 

She  kneels  and  listens  ;  on  her  heaving  breast, 
To  still  its  flutterings,  are  her  sweet  hands  pressed, 
The  while  his  lips  foretell  her  ]oyiu\  doom. 

Tears  —  happy  tears  —  are  rising,  and  a  bloom 
Of  maiden  blushes  clothes  her  that  attest 
The  Rose  she  is.     The  haloed,  heavenly  guest 
Lingers  upon  his  cloud  of  golden  gloom. 

He  gives  to  her  the  lily  which  he  brings. 
Each  cherub  in  the  aureole  above  — 
Where  harps  unseen  are  pealing  peace  and  love  — 

Smiles  with  delight,  and  very  softly  sings ; 
While  over  Mary's  head,  on  whitest  wings, 
Hovers  the  presence  of  the  Holy  Dove. 


54 


LATER  SONKETS 


LONGINGS 

As  some  lone  Alien,  who  within  his  bed 
After  long  nights  of  restlessness  hath  lain 
Tossed  with  his  fever,  looking  through  the  pane, 
Sighs  for  the  coming  of  the  morning  red 

To  ease  the  throbbings  of  his  heart  and  head, 
And  hopes,  as  night  hath  failed,  that  day  again 
May  bring  repose  unto  his  tired  brain. 
And  that,  at  length,  he  may  be  comforted  : 

So  we,  worn  fitful,  weak,  and  ill  at  ease. 
Sick  of  this  strange  existence  which  is  rife 
With  sorrows  feverous  that  never  cease ; 

Far  from  our  home,  and  tired  with  the  strife. 
Press  our  flushed  faces  'gainst  the  glass  of  Life 
And  dream  the  Dawn,  at  last,  will  bring  us  peace. 


55 


LATER  SONNETS 


TO  ^AN   AGED   POET 

What  if  the  boat  be  drifting  down  the  stream, 
And  oars,  well-worn,  hang  idly  by  its  side  ? 
Must  man  forever  pull  against  the  tide 
Nor  bask  a  little  in  the  sunset  beam  ? 

O  Worker  in  the  glorious  realm  of  Dream, 
Rest  thou  awhile,  and  let  the  River  guide ; 
Far  —  far  beyond  thee,  as  the  waters  glide, 
Behold  the  Beauteous  City,  golden,  gleam ! 

Vex  not  thy  soul,  nor  fear  the  coming  night ; 

When  evening  goes,  shall  burst  the  morning  light 
O'er  all  the  ocean  of  eternity : 

Be  sure,  O  Friend,  there  is  a  Destiny 

That  holds  the  rudder,  and  that  steers  aright,  — 
Then  let  the  current  sweep  us  to  the  sea ! 


S6 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   ONSET 

TO   EDWARD   ROBESON   TAYLOR 


At  the  dread  waving  of  Apollyon's  rod, 

Astride  their  frenzied  chargers  snorting  flame, 
On  sulphurous  clouds  the  winged  Legions  came, 
With  hate  enpanoplied,  and  vengeance  shod. 

Up  from  the  Nadir,  myriads  of  them  trod 
The  shining  steeps  to  Heaven  with  wild  acclaim ; 
Furious  they  rushed,  vindictive,  —  and  their  aim, 
To  storm  the  inviolable  gates  of  God  ! 

As  swarms  of  sea-birds,  by  the  sunset  dazed, 
Blot  out  the  sky  near  Kolanara's  coast, 
So,  countless,  flew  they  where  the  splendor  flared ; 

While,  eager  on  the  peaks,  with  wings  upraised  — 
Dark  'gainst  the  fulgence  of  the  surging  host  — 
The  Heralds,  from  their  lifted  trumpets,  blared ! 


57 


LATER   SONNETS 


BEREFT 

My  life  was  in  its  Autumn,  as  I  lay 
Dreaming  upon  an  upland  o'er  the  sea. 
Lonely  I  was  as  Lydian  Niobe 
When  all  her  pearls  Apollo  took  away. 

Then  came  a  beauteous  woman  fair  as  day, 
Who  gave  herself  and  all  her  love  to  me ; 
Anon  sweet  children  clambered  round  my  knee 
Eager  for  kisses,  —  and  the  time  seemed  May. 

These  children's  children  came,  and  I  was  grown 
Aged  and  worn,  but  still  on  them  I  smiled 
For  love  of  them  and  of  the  mother  mild. 

Sudden  I  woke  —  childless,  forlorn,  alone.  .  .  . 
O  Poesy !  canst  thou  for  this  atone  ?  — 
Thou  who  hast  reft  me  thus  of  wife  and  child } 


S8 


LATER  SONNETS 


IN    MEMORIAM 

Not  like  this  stranded  hulk  along  the  bay 
That  rots  by  inches  as  the  breakers  pour 
Their  ebb  and  flow  athwart  its  sunken  floor,  — 
Not  in  such  slow  and  ignominious  way 

Didst  thou,  O  Soul,  approach  thy  final  day ; 
But  struggling  with  the  surges  evermore, 
Amid  the  havoc  and  the  deafening  roar, 
Thou  in  our  sight  didst  still  defy  decay. 

Thou,  on  the  foaming  billows  to  thy  grave, 
Blown  by  the  storms  of  thine  imperious  will, 
Wrecked  by  the  blasts  of  Thought,  didst  fearless  ride, 

And,  from  the  crest  of  Life's  ensanguined  wave, 
Though  rudely  buffeted,  yet  battling  still, 
Didst  sink  to  darkness  in  unconquered  pride. 


59 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   CATARACT 

Supreme,  from  out  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 
These  torrents  pour.    These  glories  and  these  glooms, 
These  splendors  wove  on  Thine  eternal  looms. 
Are  fragments  of  Thy  power  —  Thy  command 

Made  visible.     Thou  didst  but  move  Thy  wand 
Above  the  void  and  darkness,  and  the  wombs 
Of  Chaos  birthed  this  wonder  that  now  fumes 
In  columned  spray  unutterably  grand. 

As  in  the  abyss  the  mighty  waters  pour. 
The  rocky  canyon  to  its  summit  shakes. 
And  all  the  valley  trembles  under  us  ; 

High  o'er  the  mist  the  screaming  eagles  soar, 
As  in  the  chasm  the  boiling  torrent  wakes 
Her  everlasting  anthem  thunderous. 


60 


LATER  SONNETS 


LONGFELLOW 

Melodious  Poet,  on  auspicious  days 
When  o'er  thy  chaste  and  polished  pages  bending, 
I  read  each  sweet  hne  to  its  golden  ending, 
Bound  am  I  by  the  fetters  of  thy  lays. 

And  as  I  follow  every  happy  phrase  — 
Music  and  beauty  to  thy  matter  lending  — 
I  seem  to  listen  to  soft  waters  wending 
Their  liquid  journey  over  pebbly  ways. 

Full  oft  thy  verse  sounds  like  a  river  flowing 
Through  windy  reed-lands  to  the  distant  lea ; 
Anon  thy  voice,  above  the  storm-cloud  going, 

Peals  as  the  sounding  trumpets  of  the  sea ; 
Or,  like  some  mediaeval  clarion  blowing 
From  bannered  turrets,  rings  out  silverly. 


6r 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   MONARCH 

Down  in  the  cloudy  towers  of  my  sleep 
A  dungeon  loomed  wherein  I  heard  the  groans 
Of  those  long  ages  prisoned  —  moans  on  moans  ; 
And  peering  further  in  the  noisome  deep, 

In  which  no  rays  of  daylight  e'er  could  creep, 
I  saw  a  skeleton  of  whitened  bones  — 
A  mighty  king's  —  the  conqueror  of  thrones  — 
Chained  to  the  walls  within  that  donjon-keep. 

His  crown  still  blazed  upon  him,  golden-dull. 
Whence,  through  the  dark,  glared  jewels,  tiger-eyed; 
In  awe  I  stood,  and  trembling,  held  my  breath  ; 

And  then  a  Voice  —  not  his  who  there  had  died  — 
Hissed  from  the  hollow  of  that  whitened  skull : 
"  I  am  the  King  of  Kings,  —  undying  Death !  " 


62 


LATER   SONNETS 


"BLAME   NOT  THE   POET 

Blame  not  the  Poet,  ye  who  idly  read, 

If  on  the  strings  he  strike  with  fingers  rude. 
Or  if  at  times  his  tones  are  harsh  and  crude ; 
Nature,  we  know,  as  oft  hath  grown  a  weed 

As  borne  a  flower ;  fooHsh  were  he,  indeed. 
Who  loved  her  less  for  that.     Our  very  blood 
Bounds  not  with  equal  pace,  but  every  mood 
Hath  its  own  pulse.     Let  Nature  for  him  plead,  — 

For  she  herself  is  rarely  at  her  best ; 

Her  harp  is  oft  unstrung  —  not  always  tense ; 
No  flat  monotony  of  excellence 

Is  hers  ;  that  glorious  pageant  of  the  West 
Is  but  her  gala-day  magnificence,  — 
There,  as  she  looks  one  moment,  sumptuous  dressed. 


63 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  FAN 


Dear  Lady,  never  was  a  gift  more  meet 

Than  yours  this  sultry  day  —  a  palm-leaf  fan. 
The  traveller  journeying  on  from  Karaman 
To  Cairo,  southward,  scarcely  feels  more  heat 

Than  we  at  home,  —  there  the  dark-sandalled  feet 
And  the  swart  turbaned  faces  African 
Scorch  on  the  camels  in  the  caravan. 
While  here,  to-day,  men  drop  upon  the  street. 

In  curtained  coolness  of  this  quiet  room. 

With  half-closed  eyes,  I  lean  back  in  my  chair. 
And,  slowly  fanning,  tread  a  land  of  dreams. 

I  seem  to  scent  the  Arabian  roses'  bloom  ; 

Soft  gales  of  Ceylon  reach  me  from  her  streams, 
And  Persian  zephyrs  stir  the  silent  air. 


64 


LATER  SONNETS 


BELLONA 


TO  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 


Round  her  the  deafening  cannon  crashed  and  roared 
'Mid  sulphurous  smoke  that  blotted  out  the  sky ; 
Upon  the  maimed  she  turned  her  gloating  eye 
And  revelled  where  the  red-beaked  vultures  gored. 

Anear  was  seen  the  onset  of  a  horde 

Wading  in  slaughter  'mid  heart-rending  moans  ; 

Gladly  she  heard  from  dying  lips  their  groans 

And  clenched,  in  reeking  hands,  her  dripping  sword. 

Scarlet  her  sandals,  saturate  with  the  blood 

That  flowed  from  countless  vassals  and  from  kings  ; 
Round  her  whirled  dust  of  empires  and  of  thrones ; 

While  from  her  pyramid  of  human  bones,  — 

"  Havoc ! "  she  screamed,  and  in  the  blackness  stood 
Waving  the  crimson  of  her  awful  wings ! 


65 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   TRAVELLERS 


TO  A  CLASS  OF  GIRL-STUDENTS 


How  oft,  at  morn,  from  some  lone  Alpine  door, 
I  watched  the  traveller  toiling  up  the  height, 
His  feet  among  the  roses,  but  his  sight 
Fixed  on  the  summits  where  the  eagles  soar. 

Steep  was  his  path  ;  thunderous  the  torrent's  roar ; 
Upward  he  went  with  toil,  yet  with  delight. 
Until  I  lost  him  on  the  peaks  of  white, 
And  never  in  the  lowlands  saw  him  more. 

And  from  these  dewy  valleys,  even  so. 

Long  have  we  seen  you  scaling  cliff  and  scar 
Upon  the  Alps  of  Learning ;  roses  now 

Bloom  round  you,  —  yet,  mount  higher  —  higher  far, 
Fair  travellers !  pass  the  peaks,  and  onward  go 
Where  knowledge,  lustrous,  leads  you  like  a  star. 


66 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE    VOYAGERS 


A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  ODYSSEY 


They  leave  the  Cyclops  roaring  in  his  cave, 
Bereft  of  sight ;  then  to  the  marge  they  creep 
And  set  their  sails,  and  all  the  triremes  sweep 
Suddenly  seaward  on  the  luminous  wave. 

About  the  prows  the  lithesome  mermaids  lave 

Star-crownM  foreheads,  while  the  slumbering  deep 
Heaves  with  the  rocks  hurled  downward  from  the  steep. 
And  at  the  galley  bends  the  shackled  slave. 

The  Anroran  twilight,  soft  and  silvery  fair, 
Spreads  o'er  the  moving  waters  silently, 
Where  dolphins  sport  upon  the  rolling  swell ; 

While,  rising  fulgent  from  the  glimmering  sea, 
The  Horses  of  the  Morning  paw  the  air, 
And,  far  away,  a  Triton  winds  his  shell. 


67 


LATER  SONNETS 


TO   RICHARD    HENRY   STODDARD 
POET   AND    CRITIC 

ON  THE  74TH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HIS  BIRTH 

O  POET !  while  the  Years  in  veiled  array  — 
As  stately  past  the  stem  procession  goes  — 
Drop  on  thy  head,  at  seventy-four,  the  snows, 
Where  once  they  placed  the  blossoms  in  thy  May, 

Let  me  —  unheeded  Singer  of  to-day  — 
Offer  my  tribute,  with  this  mountain  rose, 
To  one  who  is  preeminent  of  those 
That  keep  the  Muse's  temple  from  decay. 

For  Song's  unpurchasable  Knight  thou  art. 
Who,  with  thy  pen  as  with  a  sword  of  fire, 
Guardest  the  sacred  gates  of  Poesy ; 

Therefore,  O  Master  of  the  tuneful  lyre. 
Accept  the  homage  which  I  bring  to  thee 
With  hope  of  long  life  from  my  heart  of  heart ! 


68 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD 


GETTYSBURG 


Those  were  the  conquered,  still  too  proud  to  yield, — 
These  were  the  victors,  yet  too  poor  for  shrouds  ! 
Here  scarlet  Slaughter  slew  her  countless  crowds 
Heaped  high  in  ranks  where'er  the  hot  guns  pealed. 

The  brooks  that  wandered  through  the  battle-field 
Flowed  slowly  on  in  ever-reddening  streams ; 
Here  where  the  rank  wheat  waves  and  golden  gleams, 
The  dreadful  squadrons  thundering,  charged  and  reeled. 

Within  the  blossoming  clover  many  a  bone 
Lying  unsepulchred,  has  bleached  to  white  ; 
While  gentlest  hearts  that  only  love  had  known. 

Have  ached  with  anguish  at  the  awful  sight ; 
And  War's  gaunt  Vultures  that  were  lean,  have  grown 
Gorged  in  the  darkness  in  a  single  night ! 


69 


LATER  SONNETS 


AN   EAST  RAIN   ON   THE   ISLAND    OF   CYPRUS 

Here  let  me  walk  upon  this  headland  high 
Which  jutting  heavenward  overlooks  the  main, 
And  feel  upon  my  face  the  pelting  rain 
From  soft  savannas  'neath  an  Orient  sky. 

What  cloudless  dome  can  with  this  vapor  vie  ? 
For  summer  sunshine  now  I  feel  disdain ; 
The  driven  mist,  as  thine,  is  my  domain, 
O  dove-gray  sea-bird  drifting  dimly  by ! 

Ah,  shut  me  round  and  hide  the  half -seen  ships  ; 
Come,  soft-blown  rain,  from  tropic  fields  of  rice,  — 
From  plumy  capes  of  far  Arabian  seas ; 

Bring  wafts  of  Malabar  unto  my  lips ; 

Beat  on  my  brow  with  drops  that  touched  the  teas 
By  palmy  Ceylon  and  the  isles  of  spice  ! 


70 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   BLACK   PORTALS 

Spirit  of  mine  that  soon  must  venturous  spread 
Through  voids  unknown  thy  feeble,  fluttering  plumes, 
Hast  thou  no  fear  to  wing  those  endless  glooms  ? 
No  apprehension  nor  misgivings  dread  ? 

Those  realms  unfathomed  of  the  speechless  dead. 
Which  never  gleam  of  eldest  star  illumes  — 
Lethean  canyons  that  the  Soul  entombs  — 
Art  thou  not  awed  such  sombre  vasts  to  tread  ? 

My  Soul  replied :  "  Wisdom  hath  made  all  things  — 
Life  and  the  end  of  life,  He  gives  to  thee. 
Down  Death's  worn  path  the  mightiest  still  have  trod. 

Where  laurelled  poets  and  anointed  Kings 
Have  gone  for  ages,  it  is  good  to  be  — 
Rest  thou  contented  with  the  will  of  God." 


7« 


LATER  SONNETS 


A   COLORED   SERVANT    UNABLE   TO    READ 

With  what  a  wonder  born  of  mystery- 
She  lifts  the  books,  and  reverently  grave, 
Moves  'mid  these  voiceless  oracles  ;  —  how  brave 
She  bears  that  doom  which  naught  can  mollify. 

With  longing  eyes,  perhaps  with  yearnings  high. 
She  turns  the  fervid  pages  Shakespeare  gave 
To  all,  it  seems,  but  her,  who  was  a  slave, 
And  never  sees  a  book  without  a  sigh. 

Justice  is  God's !  .  .  .  Let  not  her  heart  rebel ; 

For  Knowledge,  like  that  flower  which  blooms  at  night, 
May  burst  at  last  full-blossomed  on  her  sight ; 

And  they,  who  here,  forsooth,  seem  learned  and  wise, 
May  wait  without  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
The  while  she  enters  in  —  through  serving  well. 


7a 


LATER  SONNETS 


IN   BONDAGE 
Man  is  a  Dream  of  Shadows.  —  Pindar 

If  speechless  through  this  shadowy  vale  we  stray, 
Reft  of  the  afflatus  of  the  sacred  Nine ; 
If  mute,  in  joy  or  suffering  we  resign 
The  dirge  to  others,  and  the  roundelay,  — 

It  will  not.  Friend,  be  ordered  so  alway, 
For  lips  can  be  unlocked  by  touch  divine : 
E'en  Memnon's  image  by  the  palm  and  pine 
Sang  in  the  desert  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

I  feel  the  Spirit  call  me  from  afar ; 
And  if  in  silence  now  these  steps  I  wend, 
This  forced  aphonia  may  not  last  for  long ; 

Not  here,  indeed,  but  in  some  fairer  star, 
Fed  from  immortal  rills,  I  hope  to  end 
A  life  ineloquent,  with  affluent  Song. 


73 


LATER  SONNETS 


TO   A   YOUNG   MAID 

Thou  bidd'st  me  speak  of  Love,  and  thou  a  girl, 
A  dove-like  maiden,  innocently  sweet. 
Whose  gentle,  duteous,  and  well-mothered  feet 
Know  not  the  primrose  path,  nor  the  red  whirl 

Of  passion's  vortex.     Thou  art  still  a  pearl 
Ungathered  and  unworn.     It  were  not  meet 
That  I  should  call  the  dark  winds  of  deceit 
To  waft  my  ship  of  words,  so  speech  must  furl 

Her  sail,  and  anchor  here.     Some  tongue,  not  mine, 
Shall  tell  thee  later,  sweet  one  !  what  love  is  ; 
Some  lips,  alas,  not  these,  teach  thee  the  bliss. 

Long  may  that  vestal  nimbus,  which  is  thine. 
Circle  thee  round  —  unsullied  by  Love's  kiss  — 
And  angel  Innocence,  more  than  half  divine ! 


74 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  BARD 

From  immemorial  times  men  have  agreed 
Their  greatest  are  the  Poet,  Architect, 
Painter,  Musician,  —  those  who  do  elect 
To  build  the  Beautiful ;  to  ever  feed 

The  cravings  of  the  soul  with  starry  deed ; 
Those  who  their  solitary  thought  project 
Into  the  ideal  world,  and  there  erect 
The  cloudy  fanes  of  an  ethereal  creed. 

Yet  not  to  all,  however  great  and  strong  — 
Though  each  a  master  of  his  subtile  art  — 
Not  equally  to  these  the  bays  belong ; 

But,  in  the  vast  Valhalla  of  man's  heart, 
Niched  above  all,  and  eminent  apart, 
The  Poet  stands,  —  soul  of  immortal  Song ! 


75 


LATER  SONNETS 


TO  A  GENERAL  OF   THE  REVOLUTION 
.1776 

Intrepid  Orator  and  Statesman  bold, 

At  whose  impetuous  and  impassioned  words 

Men  dropped  the  plowshares  and, took  up  their  swords 

To  fight  for  Freedom,  in  the  days  of  old,  — 

Forgotten  art  thou  in  this  lust  for  gold. 

Although  thy  strong  and  stirring  life  records 
Deeds  that  were  noble.     But  this  age  rewards 
With  calm  neglect  thy  labors  manifold. 

Champion  of  Liberty,  and  of  the  Right ; 
Brother  in  perilous  arms  to  Washington ; 
Thou  zealous  Ruler  of  a  glorious  State,  — 

Is  there  no  way  thy  service  to  requite  ?  .  .  . 
Sleep,  Patriot,  Sleep  !  nor  ever  know  the  great 
Ingratitude  of  Freedom  for  her  son ! 


76 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  HOME-LAND 


Why  should  I  seek  for  beauty  or  for  ease, 
On  alien  shores  afar  removed  from  mine  ? 
What  is  Illyria,  with  her  oil  and  wine,  — 
Far  Andalusia  and  the  Pyrenees, 

Or  Vallombrosa,  when  compared  to  these 
Our  native  beauties  ?    Not  the  castled  Rhine 
Is  fair  as  Susquehanna,  yet  we  pine 
For  restless  travel  o'er  the  illusive  seas. 

Ah,  rather  pluck  the  rich  Floridian  rose 
By  Tampa,  or  by  Pensacola's  bay, 
And  wander  where  the  wild  magnolia  blows ; 

Or  by  the  balmy  sea-coast  lingering,  stray 
Where  Coronado  offers  soft  repose 
And  cliffs  of  Candelaria  greet  the  day. 


77 


LATER  SONNETS 


A   LANDSCAPE   BY   REMBRANDT 

A  DRIFT  of  Storm  obscures  the  upper  air, 
And  lower,  glows  a  waste  of  dubious  light ; 
It  seems  as  if  the  legions  of  the  night 
Were  slowly  loosened  from  some  cloudy  lair. 

Dim  figures  climb  the  winding  cliff-path  stair 
And  lose  themselves  in  shadows  which  affright ; 
The  gloom  is  ominous,  and  the  inner  sight 
Sees  half  revealed  spectres  flitting  there. 

The  sombre  river  Hes  as  if  asleep, 

Save  where  the  boatman  with  his  vaporous  oar 
Troubles  the  waters.     By  the  dusky  shore 

Two  timid  children  stand  alone  and  still  ; 
While  on  the  weird  crest  of  the  windy  steep 
Arise  the  white  arms  of  the  ghostly  mill. 


78 


LATER  SONNETS 


FETTERED 

*T  IS  true  I  am  not  now  what  I  would  be 
If  health  had  helped  me  on  ;  for  I  have  been 
As  one  who  ever  battles  unforeseen, 
Some  conquering  wave  within  a  ruthless  sea. 

Had  I  but,  lifelong,  been  from  illness  free 
As  many  a  one,  then  in  the  hyaline 
Of  song,  sailing  beyond  the  ports  terrene, 
I  might  have  reached  my  haven.     But  for  me 

Sickness  hath  bound  my  wings  as  with  a  thong  — 
Hath  dimmed  my  rising  star  to  dark  eclipse. 
As  some  pale  diver  the  sea-weed  among    . 

Lets  drop  his  pearls  that  he  may  reach  the  ships, 
So  I,  at  last,  must  close  impassioned  lips, 
Relinquishing  full  many  a  pearl  of  song. 


79 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  BEAST 

Deep  in  the  earth's  most  fathomless  profound, 
In  darksome  caverns  where  there  comes  no  light, 
I  heard  a  monster  crawling  through  the  night, 
And  as  it  came  its  roaring  shook  the  ground. 

A  Shape  invisible,  it  glared  around  ; 
Only  its  eyes  I  saw  —  a  baleful  sight  — 
Green-blazing  balls  of  terror  and  of  might ;  — 
Formless  the  horror  came  —  a  moving  sound. 

Then,  when  I  thought  the  Beast  would  strike  me  dead, 
Prone  in  the  dark  I  fell,  and,  trembling,  prayed  ; 
Whereat,  descending  from  the  walls  above  — 

While  splendor  filled  the  cave  from  overhead  — 
In  dazzling  beauty  to  my  eyes  displayed, 
Appeared  the  white  wings  of  the  sacred  Dove. 


80 


LATER  SONNETS 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   BORDER-LAND 

A  MAIDEN  SPEAKS 

Oh,  take  me  not  where  northern  tempests  blow 
Amid  the  mountains  of  my  native  shore, 
Where  the  great  rivers  with  their  thunderous  roar 
Dark  through  the  pallid  valleys  plunging  go  ; 

But  on  this  golden  coast,  where  breezes  low 
Float  from  pacific  seas  unknown  before, 
Here  let  me  breathe  until  my  day  is  o'er,    ' 
Far  from  the  land  of  lone  Laurentian  snow. 

Alas,  if  I  so  young  must  meet  my  doom. 
Let  it  be  here  by  Esperanza's  lake 
Where  Bernardino's  ranges  rise,  and  take 

The  splendors  of  the  morning,  or  where  bloom 
Of  Pasadena's  roses  still  may  make 
Remembered  fragrance  round  my  dying  room. 


8i 


LATER   SONNETS 


THE   COMMONPLACE 

Along  the  marsh  a  group  of  silent  reeds ; 

The  rain-filled  ruts  reflecting  heaven*s  deep  hue 

In  muddy  roads,  aqd  as  the  dome  as  blue; 

Some  chattering  snow-birds  clustering  on  the  seeds 
Of  winter's  withered  flowers,  miscalled  weeds  ; 

Pale  wraiths  of  steam  from  some  far  factory  flue 

Seen  at  the  dawn,  the  red  sun  shining  through  ; 

And  dun  clouds  rolling  from  the  iron  steeds. 
The  saw-mill  that  within  the  woodland  sings  ; 

Wistaria,  purpling  some  old  whitewashed  wall ; 

A  glass  of  water  from  up-bubbling  springs  ; 
This  simple  sonnet  with  its  lowly  wings 

Skimming  the  surface  of  the  commonest  things,  — 

E'en  these  have  pleased  me  when  high  themes  would 
pall. 


82 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  QUEEN   OF  THE  TIDES 

She  moves  through  heaven  as  the  home  of  light, 
Seeming  a  world  beyond  our  own  more  blessed ; 
And  when  her  silvery  shallop  seeks  the  West, 
Fain  would  we  follow  to  her  regions  bright. 

But  she  hath  yawns  of  Darkness,  black  as  night ; 
Riverless  canyons  ;  sulphurous  gulphs  unguessed ; 
And  o'er  her  monstrous  crater's  lava  crest 
Never  a  cloud  hath  poised  its  fleecy  white. 

No  flower  is  there ;  no  grave,  —  no  gracious  sod  ; 
No  blessed  rain  within  those  vales  of  stone ; 
She  seems  some  incompleted  thought  of  God ; 

And  on  that  pallid  orb  as  on  a  throne  — 

Where  no  created  thing  perchance  hath  trod  — 
Eternal  Silence  sits  and  broods  alone. 


83 


LATER   SONNETS 


TO   AN   OLD   LABORER 

On  looking  from  the  window  to  the  street 
Each  eve  is  seen  an  old  man  trudging  by, 
Infirm  and  poor,  with  body  bent  awry. 
And  head  bowed  forward  toward  his  tired  feet. 

Black  with  the  dust,  and  sweltering  with  the  heat  — 
Shovelling  the  coals  each  day  incessantly  — 
He  never  looks  from  pavement  to  the  sky. 
Nor  any  of  the  passers  does  he  greet. 

Thus  every  eve  through  sunshine  or  through  sleet. 
He  may  be  seen,  as  slow  he  shuffles  nigh. 
Brave  heart !  let  me  salute  you,  as  is  meet ; 

We  both  are  of  the  toilers,  —  you  and  I,  — 
You  Ve  fought  for  seventy  years  against  defeat, 
Now  victory 's  near  —  for  some  day  you  will  die ! 


84 


LATER  SONNETS 


ON  A  PAINTING 

You  mark  at  eve,  far  outward  to  the  sea, 
Enormous  cliffs  that  rise  and  grandly  loom,  - 
Monsters  portentous  of  some  direful  doom, 
Guarding  the  gateways  to  immensity. 

Low  down  the  scarlet  clouds  are  drifting  free 
Where  dying  roses  of  the  sunset  bloom  ; 
And  voices,  as  of  phantoms  from  the  gloom, 
Reverberate  the  things  that  are  to  be. 

Darkness  is  coming  from  the  caves  of  sleep 
To  soothe  the  restless  breezes,  and  to  lull 
The  crimson  billows  that  unceasing  roll ; 

And  silence  broods  upon  the  purpling  deep 
Where,  like  a  disembodied,  wandering  soul, 
Wavers  the  pinion  of  the  lonely  gulL 


8S 


LATER  SONNETS 


HE  BUILDS  THE   CITY   OF    ENOCH 

Yearly  I  till  the  vale  and  sow  the  seed. 
But  in  the  furrow  rots  the  golden  grain  ; 
My  labor  is  accursed,  and  all  in  vain,  — 
The  very  earth  revolting  at  my  deed 

God  saith  no  man  shall  slay  me,  though  I  plead 
Daily  for  death.     He  placed  this  scarlet  stain 
Upon  my  brow,  and  agonizing  pain 
Gnaws  me  beneath  it  —  yet  He  gives  no  heed. 

Enoch  reproacheth  me  —  the  guileless  lad  — 
With  eyes  too  like  that  other —  long  since  dead, 
Remorse  engulfs  me  in  her  sanguine  flood ; 

I  build  this  City,  else  I  should  go  mad ; 
But,  as  I  work,  the  frowning  walls  turn  red, 
And  all  the  towers  drip  crimson  with  his  blood. 


86 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POESY 

Not  the  close  friendship  of  the  closest  friends  ; 
Not  wealth  descending  on  her  golden  wings ; 
Titles  nor  honor,  —  no  ephemeral  things,  — 
Can,  for  the  lack  of  her,  e'er  make  amends. 

She  will  not  stoop  to  sublunary  ends, 
Nor  touch  the  baubles  which  the  base  world  brings ; 
Her  song  unpurchasable,  still  she  sings, 
And  all  her  soul  upon  the  singing  spends. 

She  treads  her  constellated  paths  alone. 
Sandalled  with  starry  aspirations  bright. 
Beyond  the  visions  of  this  world  —  how  far ! 

Sadly  she  sits  upon  her  dazzling  throne 
In  fading  splendor,  like  a  lingering  star 
That  pales  at  sunrise  in  the  wastes  of  light ! 


87 


LATER  SONNETS 


THE   FIELDS   OF   QUIET 


"  Spirit,  whose  wings,  unruffled,  ever  seem 
Folded  in  calm  across  thy  peaceful  breast, 
Who  waitest  near  the  Throne  within  the  West,  — 
Where  are  the  Quiet  Fields  of  which  we  dream  ? 
Lie  they  along  that  molten-golden  stream. 

That  flows  at  eve  above  yon  mountain's  crest  ? 
Are  they  the  vales  reclusive,  named  of  Rest, 
That  through  the  opal  gateways  faintly  gleam  ? " 
And  then  a  voice  in  faint  seraphic  strain 

Came  drifting  downward  on  the  twilight  breath. 
From  realms  unseen  beyond  the  vesper  sky : 

"  The  Fields  of  Quiet,  here  ye  seek  in  vain ; 
Within  the  Dark  those  ashen  regions  lie, 
Deep  in  the  kingdoms  of  the  Monarch,  Death ! " 


88 


LATER  SONNETS 


NICARAGUA 
xgoo 

I,  LAKE  of  Nicaragua,  lifted  here 

High  on  the  mountains  from  my  sister  seas, 
Have  yet  a  yearning  to  be  joined  to  these, 
And  feel  at  last  my  reunition  near. 

Far  off  arise  and  echo,  silver  clear. 

Clarions  of  Hope ;  and  on  the  island-leas 
Hymns  of  return  hum  through  my  tropic  trees,  - 
O  day  so  long  desired,  soon  appear  ! 

Then  many  a  ship  that  floats  the  stripes  and  stars 
May  cross  my  waters  as  with  angel  wings 
Grain-laden  for  the  famine-stricken  East ; 

But  battle-squadrons,  bent  on  bloody  wars, 

Shall  come,  alas,  the  while  that  senseless  Beast 
Ramps  in  the  hearts  of  Peoples  and  of  Kings. 


89 


LATER   SONNETS 


THE   DYING   DAY 

What  is  thy  trouble,  Day,  in  that  thine  eyes 
Are  weighted  with  the  beauty  of  despair  ?  — 
That  all  the  illusive  glory  of  thy  hair, 
Like  a  fond  hope  fallacious,  fades  and  dies  ? 

Stabbed  by  the  spear  of  empty  prophecies. 
Become  the  burthens,  then,  too  hard  to  bear  ? 
Or  does  the  thought  of  realms  thou  must  forswear 
Flood  thee,  at  eve,  with  these  melodious  sighs  ? 

Or  dost  thou  feel  the  intolerable  weight  — 
The  iron  crown  of  hours  on  thy  head  ?  — 
And,  sadly  glad,  —  as  we  at  evening's  gate,  — 

Smile  in  thy  heart  that  thou  shalt  soon  be  dead, 
Because  the  splendors  of  an  earlier  state 
And  Dreams  auroran  now  are  vanished  ? 


90 


LATER  SONNETS 


LOOKING   SEAWARD 

The  headland  cliff  within  the  outer  bay 
Rises  uncertain  through  the  distance  dim ; 
Its  base  is  veiled,  and  faint  the  shadowy  rim 
Uplooms  a  spectre  o'er  the  wastes  of  gray. 

Ah,  could  I,  from  my  bondage  loosed  to-day. 
Leave  the  dull  coast  and  o'er  the  ocean's  brim, 
Impelled  by  mine  own  longings,  onward  skim 
To  find  a  home  within  the  Far  Away  ! 

Ah,  had  I  but  the  wandering  petrel's  plume,  — 
Tireless  and  wild,  and  as  the  wind  as  free,  — 
Then  would  I  bathe  my  wings  anear  thy  base, 

O  Cliff  unknown,  and,  where  the  rollers  boom, 
Forget  the  empty  baubles  that  we  chase. 
And  lose  myself  in  being  one  with  thee ! 


91 


LATER  SONNETS 


IN   THE  VALLEY   OF   DREAMS 


The  hearers  of  my  cups  have  served  me  well. 

Elizabeth  Stoddard. 


I  YEARNED  f OF  knowledge  and  her  starry  beams,  — 
For  radiance  of  imperial  thought  I  sighed ; 
The  more  I  searched  that  shining  shore  and  wide, 
The  further  from  me  flowed  the  wondrous  streams. 

Then  in  the  cave  of  sleep  that  dimly  gleams 
The  rudder  of  volition  slipped  aside, 
And  night  brought  to  me  what  the  day  denied  — 
The  rich  phantasmagoria  of  Dreams  : 

So  one  at  noon,  within  a  sunlit  field, 
Peers  at  the  blank  impenetrable  sky. 
To  find  his  vision  bounded  as  with  bars ; 

Then  enters  some  deep  shaft,  and  there  on  high, 
Up  through  its  tube  of  darkness,  sees  revealed 
The  imperishable  splendor  of  the  stars. 


9« 


LATER  SONNETS 


SAMSON 


Bent  upon  love,  and  beautiful  as  day, 

Samson  the  youth  to  Timnath  passed  along ; 
Musing  of  her,  he  hummed  a  desert  song,  — 
When  lo  !  a  lion  barred  his  onward  way. 

Who  would  be  victor  in  the  unequal  fray  ? 

He  thought  of  love,  and  laughed  that  he  was  strong, 
And  conquered.     Little  did  he  deem,  ere  long, 
That  lion  Passion  him  would  heartless  slay. 

How  many  a  man  in  youth's  supremest  hour 
Who  fells  the  lions  in  his  path,  will  find 
Some  dread  Delilah,  as  the  years  entice ; 

Shorn  of  his  will  and  of  his  pristine  power. 
He  —  following  the  primrose  path  of  vice — 
Falls  with  the  falling  temple  of  his  mind ! 


93 


LATER  SONNETS 


IN   LEAF-DRIFTED   AISLES 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  the  hill-side  brown 

When  all  the  verdure  of  the  year  is  dead,  — 
What  time  the  sumac  drops  her  darts  of  red,  — 
With  some  dear  friend,  far  from  the  noise  of  town ; 

And  pacing  slowly  on  the  slopes,  look  down 
Upon  the  dreamy  islands  that  are  wed 
In  bonds  of  blue  together,  while  o'erhead 
The  glowing  twilight  settles  as  a  crown. 

Sweet  as  this  is,  yet  I  more  dearly  love. 
Deep  in  the  umber  of  the  woodland  ways, 
Afar  to  wander,  silent,  and  alone ; 

For  ah  !  as  through  the  dry  leaves  on  I  move, 
I  hear  lost  footsteps,  loved  in  other  days. 
And  voices  touch  me  of  the  old  sweet  tone ! 


94 


LATER  SONNETS 


ISOLATION 

I  STOOD  aside  and  watched  the  countless  throng 
Ascend  the  windings  of  the  luminous  street ; 
Lovers  were  there  whose  pure  and  saintly  feet 
Kept  rhythmic  measure  as  they  wound  along. 

Glad  groups  of  little  children  played  among 
The  fadeless  flow'rs  ;  Madonna-mothers  sweet 
Cooed  o'er  their  babes  ;  while  from  their  golden  seat 
The  harping  choir  sang  some  deathless  song. 

In  midst  of  these,  enlaurelled,  but  apart, 

Dim  forms  paced  slowly  on  and  softly  sighed 

As  though  they  searched  for  dreams  beyond  them  flown 

The  Poets  they,  who,  each  with  aching  heart, 
Upon  the  earth  had  lonely  lived  and  died, 
And  who,  e'en  there  in  heaven,  seemed  still  alone. 


95 


LATER  SONNETS 


IN    THE   METROPOLIS 

I  LIKE  not  with  the  City's  human  stream 
To  be  rushed  onward,  nor  to  hear  the  groan 
Of  restless,  hurrying  masses,  avarice-blown 
Along  the  streets,  with  trade  their  only  theme : 

How  can  the  sylvan  poet  dream  his  dream 
Amid  the  raging  Babel  round  him  thrown,  — 
Canyons  of  brick  paved  with  reverberate  stone. 
The  whirl  of  traffic,  and  the  shriek  of  steam  ? 

But  oh,  far  off  from  all  the  noise  of  these, 
To  pace  the  shores  that  to  the  soul  belong. 
In  realms  reclusive  past  the  thought  of  care ;  — 

By  the  lone  foam  of  sanctuary  seas 
To  hear  drift  on,  in  deeps  of  sunset  air, 
The  phantom  caravels  of  deathless  Song ! 


96 


LATER  SONNETS 


ON   PRESENTING  A   SONNET 

Poet,  whose  Muse  beneath  the  southern  vine 
Hath  trod  where  fond  Alpheus  softly  flows 
To  join  his  Arethusa  where  she  rose 
In  that  famed  Isle  of  olives  and  of  wine ; 

Thou  who  wast  called  by  the  Pierian  Nine, 
And  lov'st  the  Enna  shepherd  as  he  goes 
Fluting  'mid  heifers  where  the  herds  repose, 
Along  the  valleys  lost  to  Proserpine  ; 

Thou  who  with  rare  Theocritus  communed 
In  sweet  Sicilian  dales,  far  off  and  dim,  — 
Deign  to  accept  this  all  unworthy  lay 

From  one  —  least  of  the  train  whose  harps  are  tuned 
To  Poesy  —  this  page  of  Song,  from  him 
Who  loves  like  thee  the  Dorians  passed  away. 


97 


LATER  SONNETS 


A  FLIGHT  DOWNWARD 

Upon  vermilion  ridges  that  upstand 

High  barriers  between  Hell  and  Paradise, 
I  stood  beside  the  Angel,  while  mine  eyes 
Peered  down  into  the  ever-dreaded  land 

Where  souls  still  bear  the  torment  of  the  banned. 
Then  saw  I  there  my  love  —  whom  in  the  skies 
Of  Heaven  I  thought  —  enduring  agonies. 
"  Why  is  she  there  ? "  of  him  I  made  demand. 

Then  he,  "  God  judged  her  guilty  of  a  sin,  — 
Ages  she  has  to  suffer."     I  replied,  — 
While  in  my  eager  ear  he  spake  its  name,  — 
"  Lo,  I  will  fly  to  earth  from  whence  I  came  — 
I  will  commit  that  crime,  like  doom  to  win, 
And  find  my  heaven  in  suffering  by  her  side  ! " 


98 


LATER   SONNETS 


IN   MEMORY   OF 
ALFRED,  LORD    TENNYSON 

1892 

No  more  our  Nightingale  shall  sing  his  lay  ; 

The  groves  are  mute,  for  he  has  taken  flight ; 

He  whose  mellifluous  voice  was  our  delight 

Has,  by  his  death,  brought  sorrow  and  dismay. 
There  is  a  beauty  gone  from  out  the  day  ; 

There  is  a  planet  fallen  from  the  night ; 

A  splendor  is  withdrawn  from  out  our  sight,  — 

A  glory  now  for  ever  passed  away. 
A  thousand  hearts  unused  to  bleed  have  bled. 

And  drops  of  pity  dim  the  hard  world's  eye  ; 

And  oh,  what  memories  of  the  day-spring  fled !  - 
What  vanished  hopes,  —  what  first  love's  ecstasy  ! 

Ah,  we  have  lost  what  time  can  ne'er  supply, 

For  now  the  Poet  of  our  Youth  is  dead  ! 


99 


LATER  SONNETS 


ESTRANGED 


Within  the  sunshine  of  your  gracious  smile 
I  spread  my  leaves  and  rapturously  grew, 
Rearing  my  towering  branches  to  the  blue 
Because  your  nature  seemed  so  sweet  the  while. 

And  though  I  would  not  your  fair  fame  revile, 
The  current  of  your  being  which  I  knew 
Has  changed,  and  I  am  wasting  from  your  view, 
Worn  by  the  slow  abrasion  of  your  guile. 

So  some  alluvial  island  in  mid- stream. 

Bowery  with  elm  and  bending  sycamore  — 
That  kissed  the  summer  waters  in  a  dream  — 

Is,  by  a  change  of  channel,  made  the  prey 
Of  currents  whose  corrosions  gnaw  the  shore 
And  waste  it  irretrievably  away  ! 


too 


LATER  SONNETS 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE 

IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  THB  FIRST  LANDING  OF 
WILLIAM   PENN  IN   PENNSYLVANIA 

How  beautiful  she  looked  in  that  far  day 
With  all  her  canvas  flying  in  the  breeze,  — 
The  stately  "  Welcome,"  from  the  stormy  seas, 
Wafted  on  dove-like  wings  along  the  bay  ! 
"Peace  on  the  Earth,"  her  fluttering  pennons  say. 
And  from  her  deck  a  voice  :  "  Good-will  to  men  !  " 
For  he  had  come,  the  courtly  Quaker,  Penn, 
Full  of  his  dream  of  philanthropic  sway. 

And  must  the  feet  of  Progress  ever  be 

Incarnadined  by  still  recurring  wars. 

While  from  her  path  is  swept  each  barbarous  horde  ? 
Oh,  may  this  Land,  now  under  thrall  of  Mars, 

End  her  red  slaughter  by  the  Asian  sea. 

And  sheathe  her  once  inviolable  sword ! 


lOl 


LATER  SONNETS 


A  WINTER  FLIGHT 


When  wintry  winds  are  howling  round  my  home 
On  Appalachian  uplands  drear  and  white, 
I  love  to  spread  my  spirit's  wing  in  flight 
And  through  DeLeon's  flowery  land  to  roam. 

I  soar  by  Femandina,  where  the  dome 
Is  azure  as  our  Summer's,  or  alight 
Where  inland  Arredonian  pines  invite, 
Or  skim  the  marge  by  Sarasota's  foam. 

By  Espanola  many  a  moss-hung  dell 

Allures  me  onward  o'er  the  sunny  ground ; 
I  touch  at  Punta  Gorda  where  the  swell 

Sways  lazily  the  shipping,  outward  bound. 
Or  rest  my  wings  awhile  at  Carrabelle 
Near  Apalachicola's  silver  sound. 


I02 


LATER  SONNETS 


A  WINTER  FLIGHT 
II 

Still  yearning  for  a  sight  of  other  skies, 
Across  the  Atlantic  seeking  stranger  shores, 
I  touch  a  moment  at  the  dim  Azores, 
Then  onward  wing  to  where  Illyria  lies. 

On  purple  Zante  soft  the  sunset  dies. 
And  round  the  cape  where  Lamenaria  soars 
There  comes  a  sound  of  song  and  dripping  oars, 
And  Monemvasia  from  her  cliff  replies. 

Sweet  Falconera,  —  violet  of  the  seas  !  — 
Beckons  from  all  her  inlets  deep  and  blue, 
While  Zea  whispers  where  her  olive  clings. 

And  voices  call  me,  such  as  Circe  knew. 
Till  I  descend  amid  the  Cyclades 
And  on  the  breast  of  Delos  fold  my  wing3. 


103 


LATER   SONNETS 


INVOCATION 


O  GUARDIAN  of  the  sought-foi  sacred  fire ! 
Mother  of  splendors  springing  from  the  mind ! 
Imperial  Inventress  !  let  me  find 
Melodious  solace  great  as  my  desire  ! 

Grant  me  to  waken  thy  impassioned  lyre 
To  most  mellifluent  music,  and  unbind 
The  bands  of  silence ;  oh,  once  more  be  kind, 
E'en  imto  me,  the  least  among  thy  choir ! 

Spirit  of  deathless  Poesy  and  Dreams, 

Stoop  down  above  me  all  the  day  and  night,  — 
Be  ever  near  the  while  I  draw  this  breath  ; 

Oh,  flood  me  with  thy  visionary  light, 

And  make  me  vocal  with  thy  starry  themes 
Before  the  final  aphony  of  death  ! 


104 


LATER  SONNETS 


INVOCATION 


II 


O  Breath  of  Godhead,  voicing  mysteries 
That  mortal  men,  unheeding,  seldom  hear, 
Fain  would  my  spirit  bend  a  reverent  ear 
To  feast  upon  Thy  heavenly  harmonies ! 

Come  through  the  sunset  gates,  or  on  the  breeze 
Memnonian,  murmur  to  me,  spirit-clear  ; 
Breathe  solace,  and  dispel  this  lifelong  tear 
By  mystic  music  sweeter  than  the  sea's  ! 

Give  to  this  essence  flaming  seraph  wings, 
Or  burn  it,  incense-like,  to  Thee  and  Thine, 
Upon  Thy  altar  with  its  purging  fire  ; 

Strike  Thou  at  last  from  out  these  trembling  strings 
Apocalypses  of  the  Inner  Shrine  — 
O  Breath  of  God  !  make  of  my  soul  Thy  lyre ! 


loS 


EUctrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &»  Co. 
Cambridge t  Mass,  U.S.  A. 


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